House Of Ghosts Part 21

"Not much of a crowd," Joe said, looking at the tables with vacant seats.

"The Downtown a.s.sociation is in a state of flux. Seventy-five percent attendance is a rousing success." Katz took a sip of water. "Why today?"

"I a.s.sume you mean why did I come to the meeting after not attending for a year?" Joe said, fiddling for a cigarette in the inside pocket of his sport jacket.

"Forget about lighting up. Mama's got new rules-no ringing cell phones and no smoking. To answer your question, yes," Katz said.

"I could use help with financial planning," Joe said, drawing a skeptical look from Katz. There were several faces he didn't recognize. "Which one's Hargrove?"

"The three piece suit sitting next to Barry Martinson."

Owner of a haberdashery shop known for designer labels and astronomic prices, Martinson was the a.s.sociation president and also a force at the Westfield temple. Well over six feet, his swept back black hair highlighted with splashes of gray at the temples made him a dead ringer for the late actor Caesar Romero. Lester Hargrove was a rather nondescript, balding middle-aged man looking as if he stepped out of the 1930s with his blue pinstriped three-piece suit and watch bob.

"What's his deal?" Joe asked.

"Les is a tax attorney with a practice heavy in estate planning. He's lived and practiced in town since 1960, kind of quiet, stays to himself, a good guy," Katz said, wiping his mouth. "You better get something to eat before the meeting starts."

Joe rose. "You wouldn't be related to Harold Katz by any chance?"

Katz held his fork two inches from his mouth. "Where's he from?"

"Brooklyn. He owned a deli in the 1930s."

"Not to my knowledge. Where do you come up with this stuff?" Katz finished his last bite of ziti. "You sure you didn't suffer a head injury in addition to your leg?"

"Just asking," Joe said. He made his way to the buffet, surveying the choices of ziti, chicken Marsala, and sausages with peppers. Scooping a ladle of each onto his plate, Joe wondered if Carmine a.s.sembled the buffet from the previous night's leftovers.

Kim eased behind Joe. "Joe, great to see you," Martinson said, eyeing Joe's sport jacket. "Kim, can you believe he's decided to grace our presence."

"And I hope to see more of him," Kim said, delivering a covert pinch to Joe's rear end.

"Joe," Martinson said, cutting his chicken piece into four. "You must know Lester Hargrove."

Joe moved away from the buffet table, extending his hand toward Hargrove. "Actually, I haven't had the pleasure."

Hargrove, picking at his salad, was locked onto the screen of his laptop computer. He didn't move either to stand or shake hands. Wires ran from the laptop to a projector focused on the wall behind. "I didn't catch your name."

"Henderson, Joe Henderson."

Hargrove stared at Joe. "Ruth Ritchie told me you removed the papers from the bas.e.m.e.nt in the Swedge house."

Martinson's ears perked up, looking first at Joe then at Hargrove. "I did, and would appreciate a few minutes at the end of the meeting," Joe said. Hargrove mumbled something Joe took for the word sure. Joe was sure of one thing- the tax attorney had the social skills of a twelve year old.

Mel Katz pounded the table laughing at one of Bud Kerrigan's jokes. The undertaker had snuck into Forno's through the service entrance in the alley behind the restaurant. "Joe's a man of his word. He said that he would show, and by G.o.d he did," Kerrigan said, squeezing Joe around the shoulders. "I've got to grab a bite and scoot. I have a client waiting in destiny's transporter."

"Ask Carmine for a doggy bag," Joe quipped. He re-took the chair next to Mel, sliding the five-iron under the table. Joe relished the lasagna, dipping a piece of bread into the extra sauce he sc.r.a.pped from the pan. "How's Kope and Naomi?" he asked Mel.

Mel shook his head. "My aunt is holding her own, but my uncle is failing fast. His eyesight is worse. They're both eighty-one, I suppose it could be worse."

"He didn't do too bad the last time we played golf," Joe said.

"We've got to start the meeting," Mel said, looking toward Barry Martinson pointing to his watch. Martinson gave the thumbs up. "That was over a year ago, before you turned into a hermit."

"I have to get off my b.u.t.t and get over for a visit," Joe said.

"They'll be back in two days. Went to D.C. to visit my cousin," Mel said, again signaling Martinson to begin the meeting.

Barry Martinson stood, ringing his water gla.s.s with a spoon. "I'd like to introduce Lester Hargrove..."

"Excuse! Excuse!" Carmine Forno called, pus.h.i.+ng a cart with two trays of fluted champagne gla.s.ses onto the dance floor. He took two gla.s.ses from the tray, handing one to Joe. "In honor of Lieutenant Joe coming back from the dead!" They clinked gla.s.ses, each downing the Asti Spumante. "Everybody, helpa yourselves."

Carmine shook hands with Joe, spun on his heels and returned to the kitchen. Toasts and a chorus of He's a Jolly Good Fellow He's a Jolly Good Fellow ended with Joe taking a bow. Martinson grasped the back of his chair. "It is my pleasure to introduce Lester Hargrove. Lester is..." ended with Joe taking a bow. Martinson grasped the back of his chair. "It is my pleasure to introduce Lester Hargrove. Lester is..."

"And they say that being an a.s.shole doesn't pay," Joe said to Mel. "They love me."

"Thank you, Barry." Hargrove cleared his throat three times. "Estate planning should begin..."

Joe turned to Mel. "Lester, the molester. I don't like the looks of him."

"Shut up," Mel whispered. "I can't concentrate on what Hargrove is talking about."

Knives and forks rattled in the background. The lights were dimmed. "The graph on the left denotes the taxation rate in 1975. On the right is the current rate. It is easy...," Hargrove droned on.

Joe checked his watch- twenty more minutes of h.e.l.l twenty more minutes of h.e.l.l. "Kope and Naomi graduated from N.Y.U.," he said to Mel. "Do you know what year?"

"1941. No it was '42. My aunt was looking at her yearbook the last time I was over," Mel said. "The man is trying to give a presentation. Are you taking your medication?"

Hargrove's Power Point Power Point presentation slides flashed on the wall. A kaleidoscope of facts, figures, charts and pie grafts were highlighted by the tax attorney's laser pointer. Joe watched the heads bobbing, not knowing if it was the champaign or Hargrove's monotone. Mercifully, the lights were raised. The guest of honor answered several softball questions and received a polite round of applause. presentation slides flashed on the wall. A kaleidoscope of facts, figures, charts and pie grafts were highlighted by the tax attorney's laser pointer. Joe watched the heads bobbing, not knowing if it was the champaign or Hargrove's monotone. Mercifully, the lights were raised. The guest of honor answered several softball questions and received a polite round of applause.

"I need to talk to Hargrove," Joe said.

"I'm going to scoot. If you're served, call me," Mel was up an off.

Joe retrieved the five-iron, making his way between well-wishers to Hargrove who was dismantling the projector. "Very informative, Mr. Hargrove," Joe said. "I wish I had this information years ago."

Hargrove unplugged the projector. "It's never too late to make a proper plan," he said with satisfaction.

"Like Preston Swedge?" Joe asked with a faint smile.

Hargrove wound the wire from the laptop to the projector around his hand. Grimacing, he asked, "What is it you're asking?"

Joe studied Hargrove's face. The counselor had a strange habit of scrunching his face. Joe couldn't decide if Hargrove was constipated or hadn't been laid in years. "Preston began donating money to the Westfield temple in 1960 around the time of the Jewish high holidays. I'm curious to know why."

Closing the laptop, Hargrove collected his notes. "I was a neophyte in practice when Mr. Swedge walked into my office. I was glad for the work. He paid my fee. I didn't ask his motivation."

Joe placed the five-iron under his arm. "Anyone who has lived forty years in town knows Preston's reputation. It never crossed your mind that his yearly donation ran opposite to his history?"

Hargrove s.h.i.+fted uneasily from foot to foot, fiddling with his pocket watch. "No. Why don't you ask Barry?"

Martinson caught the tail end of the discussion. "What should I be asked?" He moved around the table to stand next to Joe.

"Why did Preston Swedge make a yearly donation to the temple?" Joe wasn't smiling.

Martinson ran his hands over Joe's shoulders then down the sleeves. "The funds were deposited into the rabbi's discretionary fund. It was between Bernie Balaban and Mr. Swedge. Nothing stays a secret for ever, something to do with Adolf Eichmann and the Holocaust. I didn't push it. It isn't everyday that a gentile becomes a major benefactor of a Jewish organization."

Hargrove strapped his paraphernalia to a small luggage cart. "Thanks for the opportunity Barry. Mr. Henderson, if you would like a consultation for your estate needs, please call." He handed Joe his business card.

Martinson scrutinized Joe's sport jacket. "I could swear I sold this jacket to a very s.e.xy lady married to a very wealthy gentleman."

Joe wanted to smack himself in the head with the five-iron for wearing Alenia's gift. "I bought this at one of the discount places on the highway. Cost me a hundred bucks."

"It's an eight hundred dollar item," Martinson said. "You're a lucky guy."

"In more ways than one," Joe said. His cell phone chimed.

"Jozef!" Alenia screeched. "Someone tried to break in!"

"Your house?"

"No! Your house. A big man was looking in from door to the deck," she said with terror in her voice. "The dog scared him off."

"Did you call the police?"

"You're the police. Come soon."

Chapter 26.

PRINCETON, NJ OCTOBER 2000 2000.

JOE POUNDED PRESTON'S FAKE SECURITY COMPANY monitoring sign into the gra.s.s at the base of the front steps. He knew it was meaningless- only a perp on crack with an I.Q. of 35 would fall for it.

Alenia's description of the would-be intruder matched Ed Stovall's snooper around the Swedge place on three points-tall, hulking, and gray hair, but didn't move like an old man. Alenia threw in one tidbit: his eyes. There was something "bad" about them, the way he looked at her gave her the "kureeps." Joe pointed out that she was lucky, considering a "bad" man was looking at a very well-endowed naked lady in search of her bra.s.siere.

Joe had no doubt the guy was casing the house and the combination of Alenia's screaming and Roxy's barking drove him off. There had been a rash of break-ins around town with three in the area just the last week. He wondered what a.s.shole would want to boost a cop's house, then again, nothing would be a surprise.

Joe slid behind the wheel of the Volvo and tossed directions downloaded from the Web on the pa.s.senger seat. The widow of Clark Johnson sounded guarded when Joe asked if she had a few minutes time, that he was an author researching material for a book on the isolationist movement prior to America's entry into World War Two. He had known Preston Swedge for twenty years and they also shared a mutual friend-James Miller. The mention of Miller's name was the secret word. "Two o'clock will be fine," Gloria said. "I hope you like chocolate chip cookies. I made a fresh batch this morning."

Joe looked at every j.a.panese white compact car as he wound his way through the center of town and south toward U.S. Highway 1-young women with kids in car seats, grandmas, and a priest, but no gray haired old "bad" man.

He tried to imagine what the highway looked like from the rear seat of Herbert Swedge's Packard. The entire Route 1 corridor was now condominiums, strip malls and large industrial parks, not the cornfields, vegetable and dairy farms of 1938 that made New Jersey the "Garden State."

b.u.mper to b.u.mper traffic lengthened the forty minute trip to an hour and a half. He was running fifteen minutes behind schedule. Joe followed the signs for Princeton, taking the exit onto Harrison Street. Two lanes widened to four. A granite pointed bridge offered panoramic views of the Millstone River where the Princeton University sculling team had four boats practicing. He chuckled at the thought of his father who took him to Princeton basketball games hoping his son would take the academic path and break the family tradition of the N.Y.P.D. When Joe's S.A.T. scores squeaked above the bowling average of the older Henderson, talk of becoming a Princeton Tiger ceased.

Joe checked the directions-right on Na.s.sau Street, three blocks, left on Cedar. He clicked the turn signal, breaking for a red light at the Na.s.sau intersection. The main drag through the borough was packed with traffic heading from the shopping district. Joe lit a cigarette, second guessing his choice of using an author for his cover story. Bluffing wasn't his strong suit. His paltry poker winnings at the weekly game he attended before being shot were proof.

The light cycled twice before the clog cleared. Joe maneuvered around a box truck jutting into the lane. A yellow cab turned left onto Cedar Lane, stopping to discharge its fare. A middle age man with a large black hat and black suit got out. Adjusting his yarmulke yarmulke, he walked with a slouch toward the main entrance of the Jewish Center of Princeton. Joe chuckled to himself-he'd have to ask Gloria Johnson if the building was built before or after her anti-Semitic husband died.

225 Cedar Lane was a stately, white brick, Georgian colonial. Plants of every description provided an ever changing pallet of fall color against a lawn manicured to perfection. Joe parked in the vacant driveway, taking a curved path of crimson pavers to a fieldstone landing.

Tapping a heavy bra.s.s knocker mounted on the front door painted the same color as the walk's pavers produced no immediate response. Slowly, the door opened revealing a lady no taller than Ruth Ritchie dressed in a tight fitting white turtleneck sweater and a pair of black designer jeans. Joe thought of the cheerleader who met Clark Johnson the night Orson Wells scared the bejesus out of the American public with his War of the Worlds War of the Worlds radio broadcast. All she was lacking was a pair of pompoms. Her face bore deep creases from sixty years of wors.h.i.+pping the sun. Cornflower-blue eyes and gray flecked blonde hair cut in a pageboy completed the package. "Mrs. Johnson, I'm sorry I'm late." radio broadcast. All she was lacking was a pair of pompoms. Her face bore deep creases from sixty years of wors.h.i.+pping the sun. Cornflower-blue eyes and gray flecked blonde hair cut in a pageboy completed the package. "Mrs. Johnson, I'm sorry I'm late."

"Don't be silly," Gloria Johnson said in a smoky voice. "Mr. Henderson, come in."

Joe leaned heavily on the five-iron crossing the threshold. Driving around Westfield made his leg ache. Ninety minutes of stop and go traffic caused severe calf pain and loss of feeling in his foot. "Are you okay?" Gloria asked.

"Old war injury," Joe said, taking in the decor. Hand printed wallpaper featuring falling leaves lined the entranceway. Birds of Paradise were arranged in a Kosta Boda gla.s.s vase on an heirloom mission red oak console table. An ensemble of family pictures was cl.u.s.tered around the departed Clark. He stole a look at picture of a young boy, five or six, sitting on Clark's lap. There was no question Clark was the father.

"I hope you don't mind the kitchen," Gloria said, leading the way. The aroma of brewed coffee wafted down the hallway.

Joe peaked into the formal dining room. Antiques were not his forte, but he recognized money when he saw it. The house was furnished with a taste he hadn't seen except for when he couldn't sleep, pa.s.sing the early morning hours watching the decorating channels on the cable.

Giant mums in a large crystal vase were on the kitchen's center island. Sea island green granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and rosewood raised panel cabinets highlighted the updated kitchen. Joe did the math-it was a hundred grand renovation if it cost a nickel. The woman had been a widow for forty years. He wondered where the money flowed from.

"Can I get you some coffee?" Gloria asked, retrieving two large hand-painted mugs, each with the scene of the sun setting on Maui. "It's fresh."

"Perfect," Joe replied, tempted to ask for extra cream and a dose or two of Vicodin. His leg was hurting worse than it had in months. Joe took a seat at an antique country table.

Gloria placed a mug and a tray of the promised chocolate chip cookies and a pitcher of cream before Joe. "Mr. Henderson," she said. "sugar is in the bowl."

"All my friends call me Joe, Mrs. Johnson," he said, pouring a shot of cream into his coffee.

"Mrs. Johnson was my mother in law. I'm Gloria." she said, removing a sterling monogrammed silver cigarette case from her handbag on the counter. "I'm glad to hear Reverend Miller is on the mend." She lit a cigarette with a matching silver lighter.

"I saw him two days ago, he looks good for what he's gone through." Joe retrieved a Marlboro from the inside pocket of his sport jacket.

Gloria took a seat at the table. "I lost contact with Preston after Millie died."

"I understand she was a wonderful person," Joe said, taking a sip of coffee. "He spoke highly of you and told me more than once how much he missed you."

Gloria didn't comment on Joe's fabrication. She looked Joe squarely in the eye, taking a long drag on the cigarette. "Joe, I'm not familiar with your work."

Not losing her glare, he responded, "I freelance for a handful of magazines. Maybe you saw the piece I did in American Warrior American Warrior last month." last month."

"Sounds like Tolstoy," Gloria jibed. "Tell me the premise of your book."

"America was deeply divided before World War Two. One camp was itching to join the fray, the other to stay out."